


Easy as Π

by Masu_Trout



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Cooking, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Partners in Culinary Crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-14 00:40:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7992208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masu_Trout/pseuds/Masu_Trout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Don't worry! The Great Papyrus has never failed a culinary challenge.”</i>
</p><p> <i>“Except for that time the kitchen exploded,” Sans added.</i></p><p>Frisk decides that a making homemade pie for Toriel's birthday would be a good idea. (Frisk soon learns to regret that decision.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easy as Π

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prosodiical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosodiical/gifts).



> I really hope you enjoy this, prosodiical! I had an absolute blast writing it.

“Okay.” Frisk dumped two plastic bags of groceries onto the pristine counter. “I think we've got everything.”

Two bags of flour: check. Enough sticks of butter to make a very small log cabin: check. Pounds upon pounds of salt and sugar: check. Several dozen perfectly round, red-streaked apples: check. A kitchen free of Toriel for the next several hours: check.

Two grinning skeletons, one leaning against the kitchen counter and the other perched on top of it: check.

“Remember”—Frisk gazed deep into Papyrus's eye sockets, then gave Sans' gleaming irises a matching stare—“we only have four hours. We have to get this _done_.”

Papyrus snapped to attention and beamed down at them. Toriel's kitchen was the furthest thing from drafty, but a slight breeze stirred the edges of his cape nonetheless. “Don't worry! The Great Papyrus has never failed a culinary challenge set before him.”

“Except for that time the kitchen exploded,” Sans added.

“Except for that time the—hey!” Papyrus turned to glare down at Sans, then blinked and readjusted his angle; Sans was almost as tall as his brother when he stood on top the counter. It made for a strange sight. “That wasn't a culinary _failure_ , that was a culinary setback. I'll have you know,” he added, turning back to Frisk, "that I successfully invented spaghetti bourguignon only four attempts later.”

“Okay.” Frisk frowned. “But if the kitchen explodes this time it'll make for a _really_ bad surprise. No one likes their kitchen exploding on their birthday.” Except maybe Mettaton, and even then only if he was the one who made it explode so that hardly counted.

“Don't worry.” Sans had given up on standing on the kitchen counter in the few moments Frisk had looked away; now he was lounging on top of it, laying back with his skull resting against a stack of magazines and his slippered feet hanging out into the open air. “I'm your adult supervision. I'm here to make sure nothing explodes.”

Frisk shook their head. “You're here to cut apples, Sans.”

“Whaaat.” Sans drew the word out into a petulant little yawn, though the gleam in his eyes didn't dim any so Frisk knew he wasn't _really_ annoyed. “No one told me I'd be doing work if I tagged along."

“Lazy,” Papyrus huffed, crossing his arms and turning pointedly away from Sans.

Sans just shrugged. “It's in my bones. What can I do?”

“ _You_ —”

Frisk clapped their hands loudly, interrupting the two before Papyrus had a chance to really get going. “Okay! Let's get cooking. Papyrus, can you start by getting out two sticks of butter? If we let it get warm, the pie won't turn out as good."

Papyrus nodded and sprang towards the bags of groceries with his typical boundless energy.

(More than once, after meeting Papyrus for the first time, a diplomat or politician had sidled up to Frisk and asked in an undertone: “Are they, uh, _all_ like that?” It was always a fun question to answer, because the short answer was _no_ and the long answer was _he's one of the tamer ones_.

Humans tended not to appreciate monsters enough, Frisk felt. Life with them was a great deal more fun—if a touch less safe—than anything Frisk had ever experienced before their fall to the Underground.)

Frisk took a breath, gathering their resolve, remembering the times they'd done this before with their mother. It wasn't _hard_ , exactly—or, at least, Toriel always made it look easy—but they wanted to get this just right. Toriel always was there to comfort them and cheer them on; the least they could do was make her a nice birthday present.

They'd never really had people to give presents to before, so this was new and uncharted territory. Frisk didn't want to mess up.

“All right,” Frisk said once Papyrus had pulled the butter out. They frowned for a moment—the counter was set at just the right height for a hulking boss monster, which meant they could barely see over it—before scrambling up to sit next to Sans. “Next thing we need to do is unwrap it and cut it into tiny pieces.”

Sans laughed when they settled down next to him and ruffled their hair with a bony hand. “See, kid? I knew I'd rub off on you eventually.”

They ducked their head, trying to hide their grin, and only smiled wider when Papyrus scowled at the both of them. “Don't compare the two of you! _Frisk_ has never fallen asleep inside of our refrigerator.”

Sans's eyes flickered and he tilted his head, somehow giving the impression of pouting. “I can't believe you'd bring that up. How cold.”

Papyrus's expression crumpled at the joke, but apparently he was getting better at realizing he was fighting a losing battle because he only turned to the butter with a grumble.

Two quick tugs had the wrappers off the butter sticks, leaving them ready to be cubed. Flickers of blue magic danced up Papyrus's arms, sliding around his forearms and through the joints of his fingers as he concentrated—

“Stop!” Frisk yelped, finally realizing what Papyrus was about to do. 

Both brothers turned towards them, wearing identical looks of confusion.

“What's wrong?” Papyrus asked. He paused a moment, considering. “My dicing technique is impeccable, if that's what you're worried about! I've sliced thousands of tomatoes in my time.” He cracked his knuckles in emphasis, sending sparks of magic leaping between his fingers.

“No, that's not it.” Frisk shook their head, trying to find the words to describe what they wanted to say. 

Sans cut in suddenly, an exaggerated look of horror blooming on his face. “…Are we going to have to do this _without magic?_ ”

“No, no!” Frisk wouldn't even know how to make this dish without it—Toriel always used fire magic to heat the crust, and just a touch of ice magic to cool the ingredients to the perfect temperature… “It's just—making a pie isn't the same as making spaghetti. You can't punch the ingredients until they turn out right. You have to”—they thought about the way their mom always cooked, the gentle movements and tiny precise adjustments she made, the smile on her face as she walked Frisk through each step—“you have to _cherish_ it.”

For a moment, none of them said anything. Frisk's face flushed as heat spread through their cheeks. That didn't even make any sense, they should have just kept their mouth _shut_ —

They were drawn out of their thoughts by the sound of Papyrus's bones scraping against each other. “Frisk,” he said. The sockets of his eyes shined with a strange energy. “I understand! This is the true soul of baking! I will cherish this butter like it has never been cherished before!”

“Oh boy,” Sans said fondly. “Now you've gone and got him _inspired_.”

This time, the magic that pooled around Papyrus's bones was smoother, more delicate: more like a river than a bursting dam. The butter floated gently into the air, buoyed by the rippling magic, then—almost as if it had spontaneously decided to split itself—broke into dozens of small cubes. A moment and a flick of Papyrus's wrist later, they dropped into the glass bowl Frisk had set on the counter. 

“Yes!” Frisk clapped their hands together and nearly fell off the counter in their excitement. “That's perfect, Papyrus!” 

“Amazing,” Sans added, sounding entirely sincere. 

Papyrus preened under the weight of their admiration. “Of course it was! A skeleton of my considerable talents could never struggle with something so simple.” 

“Except for the time—” 

“Not listening!” Papyrus clapped his hands over the sides of his skill and whistled tunelessly. Frisk had no idea if the gesture actually helped at all, given that he didn't actually have ears, but the noise alone was certainly loud enough to drown out anything Sans might have said. Frisk was a little tempted to cover their own ears, actually; Papyrus could _whistle_. The shrieking sound was impressive and agonizing in equal measure. 

“ _Okay_ ,” they said pointedly once the whistle had finally petered off, “let's keep going. We'll have this finished in no time at all if we just focus.” 

Sans nodded and Papyrus gave them a cheerful, bone-warping wink. “Absolutely! What's up next?” 

Frisk guided them carefully (and, more often than not, very messily) through the process of making a homemade apple pie. They chipped in wherever they could, but they had no magic of their own to help with the tasks; more often than not, they ended up kneeling on the counter and carefully guiding Sans through slicing an apple or Papyrus through rolling out the dough. If either of the brothers minded Frisk's role, they certainly didn't show it—if anything, Papyrus looked overjoyed to be in the kitchen and getting his bones dirty. Even Sans only rumbled out a token complaint or two each time he was instructed to do something that involved moving. 

Finally, after just under an hour (as well as one flour explosion, four dropped apples, and two liquified cups of sugar), the three of them had a beautiful—if slightly lopsided—apple pie. 

Papyrus beamed down at it with something like paternal pride. “Look at us! I knew we would become masters of the kitchen!” 

“Now all we have to do is cook it,” Frisk added. 

A long, long silence followed their words. 

“…So, um, not to be a spoilsport,” Sans added, “but do you know what temperature it needs?” 

Frisk shook their head miserably, cheeks flushing hot as they realized their mistake. “I'm not allowed to use the stove.” They'd never _needed_ to, really; Mom had always finished the pies she made with a graceful touch of fire magic. 

“Well, I can't do fire,” Sans admitted with a shrug, “so it's going to have to be Papyrus.” 

Papyrus squared his shoulders as he faced down the pastry. Blue magic curled around him once more, this time flickering into being as bright, dancing flames. “Never fear!” 

Frisk watched in amazement: Toriel and Asgore's fire always burned hungry red or hot white. They'd never seen magic look like this before. 

Then his hands swept forward together, and before Frisk could even say _wait_ that blue-tinged inferno was leaping straight for the pie. 

– 

A few minutes later, the three of them were once again staring at the pie, this time with very different expressions on their faces. 

“It's okay,” Frisk said, patting Papyrus on the hip—it was the only part of him in easy reach when they weren't standing on something. 

“It's just a little dark, that's all,” Sans added comfortingly. 

Dark was underselling it a bit—Frisk was pretty sure pies weren't supposed to crumble that way, or smell so strongly of ash—but they weren't about to be the one to make any of this worse. It was their fault, after all, for not knowing how to cook it in the first place. “I bet Vulkin would love it,” they said instead. 

“I know,” Papyrus said, though his voice sounded a little sniffly. He rubbed his cape against the edges of his eye sockets, then took a deep, ribcage-rattling breath and stood straighter once more. “This is just… a setback, that's all! It's like Undyne told me: your dish isn't finished if your kitchen is still standing!” 

“Uh,” Frisk said, not quite sure that was the lesson they were supposed to be taking from all this, but before they could interrupt Sans jumped in. 

“So, then.” He stretched lazily, popping joints in his wrists and shoulders and spine as he did. His irises gleamed a challenge at them both. “Does that mean we're ready for round two?” 

“Yes!” Papyrus cheered. 

Frisk sucked in a deep breath, considering. Either they would make Toriel the _best_ apple pie she had ever tasted, or they would burn her kitchen down. 

Either way, it would be a memorable birthday. 

__“All right,” Frisk said. They took a running leap and hopped back up onto the counter to survey their domain once more. The kitchen, the ingredients, the loyal helpers—they had everything they could possibly need. “Round two it is!”_ _

– 

__Round two came out gelatinous._ _

__“That might be my fault.” Sans grimaced as he poked the pie's wobbly top. “I think I might have sliced the apples a bit too much.”_ _

“It's not _bad_ ,” Frisk said, “it's just… not really an apple pie. More of an applesauce pie, really. I bed it would taste pretty decent.” 

__Papyrus's eyes shone. “Does that mean we invented a new form of pie?” He clapped his hands against his cheeks. “Amazing! I really am a culinary genius!”_ _

__“…Maybe?” It certainly didn't look like anything Frisk had ever seen before, at the very least._ _

__(Taste considerations aside, they unanimously decided a round three was in order.)_ _

__–_ _

__Round three collapsed in on itself before they could even get the crust all the way on, an unfortunate casualty of overly-warmed butter._ _

Round four froze solid when Papyrus accidentally over-adjusted the temperature on his magic. ( _Apple-flavored ice cream pie,_ Sans called it, and Papyrus called it _time to try again_.) 

Round five somehow managed to _explode_ , spattering the three of them, the walls, and the ceiling with apple-cinnamon-scented goo. It was equal parts delicious and disgusting. 

__Round six found itself encased in a strange purple crystal the moment their backs were turned. None of them were quite sure how it had happened._ _

__Round seven… round seven was a masterpiece. It was quite possibly the single most beautiful apple pie Frisk had ever seen. The crust was golden-brown and toasted just a hint darker here and there, sweet goo dribbled out from between each of the perfectly-symmetric holes they'd pricked in the top, and the scent of sugar and goodness wafted through the air from where it sat on the counter top._ _

__“Huh,” Sans said, looking up at it. “I honestly thought we weren't going to manage it.”_ _

__Frisk flicked the side of his skull and grinned when he turned their way. “That's what you get for not believing in us!”_ _

__He chuckled. “Yeah, I guess that's fair enough.”_ _

“Wow.” Papyrus was all but vibrating with excitement. “ _Wow_. And we didn't even burn anything down! Not even once!” 

__Frisk gave a silent thanks for that. They had a feeling their mother would be slightly less understanding than Undyne when it came to things like smashed tables and exploded kitchens._ _

True, the casualties of pie creation were… well, they were _there_. A few apple slices had affixed themselves to the ceiling and dough was splattered across heavily the floor. The counter tops were all dusted pale white with flour and sugar. Every single appliance in Toriel's kitchen—and some Frisk didn't even recognize—had found _some_ use in their frantic creation, and each was coated with its own unique mix of ingredients. (Frisk had a feeling there might be a few entirely new recipes stuck to them; certainly the texture of some of the mixtures looked alien enough.) 

__“All right,” Frisk said. “This is good.” They chanced another glimpse at the pie, half-afraid it would spontaneously combust or disappear or turn into spiders if they looked away for even a moment. “This is definitely good. Let's just get cleaned up, okay?”_ _

_We really did it._ It was something they could be proud of, made completely without the help of resets; all they'd needed was patience, a few (entirely normal) do-overs… and a couple of skeletons, of course. 

__Frisk wasn't quite sure how to properly thank them for their help. This kind of easy friendship wasn't something they had much experience with._ _

__(Probably a slice of pie would be a good start.)_ _

Excitement welled up within them: they could already imagine their mother opening the door to a pristine kitchen and a homemade pie on the counter. Frisk could almost see the look on her face, feel her warm fur around them as she pulled them into a hug, hear the metallic click of her key sliding into the lock— 

_Oh._

_Oh wait._

There was no _almost_ there. The key turned in the lock with a soft _thunk_ ; beyond that, Frisk could hear soft footsteps and muffled voices. 

Toriel was home early. 

“Huh,” Sans said. His face didn't quite _do_ expressions, but somehow he managed to look terrified nonetheless. 

__“Well then!” Papyrus grinned brightly. “I think I'll just—”_ _

“Don't you _dare_ jump out the window,” Frisk said, shooting him a stern look from under their bangs. 

__Halfway to the side window, Papyrus froze guiltily. He paused for a moment, as if assessing his chances, before slinking back to Frisk's side._ _

No time to think. No time to worry. Frisk would just have to hope she'd understand. 

(And if she didn't— 

__If she was angry—_ _

No. Frisk refused to imagine that. Toriel was like no other parent Frisk had met. She would _never_.) 

__The front door opened. Toriel stepped into the hall, fur ruffled from the wind and arms laden with bags. Her eyes widened as she took in the three standing there—“Oh, hello!” she called out with a grin—and then widened even further as she took in the chaos around them._ _

__Nothing to do but go for it, then. Frisk put on their best, biggest smile, and wrapped an arm each around Papyrus and Sans. Three different personalities, three different voices, but the word came out together as if they'd rehearsed it:_ _

__“Surprise!”_ _

__For a moment, Toriel only blinked. “I. Is this? Oh my.”_ _

And then the shock faded to something softer, and Frisk only had a moment's warning before their mother burst into roaring laughter in the middle of the entryway. “Your… your _faces_!” she said helplessly, her voice catching on each gasp of laughter. Her arms shook so hard she was in danger of dropping her bags.

__Frisk glanced across at Sans then up at Papyrus, catching the look that was mirrored across all three of their faces. (Surprise, relief, a little bit of lingering terror.)_ _

__“Well,” Sans said softly, quiet enough that only Frisk could hear, “I guess we can call this a success.”_ _

__Frisk nodded, dragging both brothers in tighter around them. They completely agreed._ _


End file.
